


The Deceived Heart

by dayari



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sleepwalking, Spells & Enchantments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-28
Updated: 2010-11-28
Packaged: 2017-11-12 09:35:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dayari/pseuds/dayari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin thought they were just going on a regular hunting trip, but of course Arthur finds a sorceress to annoy, and she puts a sleepwalking curse on him. Figures that it's up to Merlin to find a way to lift it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Deceived Heart

**Author's Note:**

> *reposts fic like a slug* Birthday fic for [diluted_thought](http://diluted-thought.livejournal.com/) from 2010! I wrote about 90% of this in a single day—the first draft was ridiculously typo-ridden because I was trying so hard to keep up with my own thoughts. :D I had _so much fun_ with this. Hope you enjoy!

It's the sort of thing that he can already see himself tell his grandchildren about, gathered close around his armchair next to a roaring fire on a cold winter's night. But on second thought, maybe the story of how the first thing Merlin did one autumn morning was to give his sovereign liege a concussion—albeit by accident—is not really the stuff of legends after all.

True, he manages to catch a single glimpse of Arthur's face when he makes to leave his room that morning, his golden hair unruly over blue eyes that look strangely glazed; but by then it's too late to stop the swing of the opening door. It smacks into Arthur's forehead with a sickening crunch, and the prince stumbles back, nearly falling down the steps into Gaius' room and only just managing to steady himself with a hand on the wall.

"Bloody ow!" Arthur yells, clutching at his head and squinting up at Merlin with a mixture of astonishment and rage. "Shit," Merlin breathes, bounds down the stairs and pushes Arthur down to sit on Gaius' bench with firm hands on his shoulders.

A quick glance to the side confirms that Gaius is already making his rounds—Merlin realizes that he'll have to deal with this on his own as he unceremoniously tugs Arthur's hands away from his forehead and leans closer to inspect the skin, dutifully ignoring the cursing. Arthur is still in his night shift and the soft woolen breeches he wears to bed; he must have rushed here as soon as he woke up.

"—too dense to wait until you're not _half-asleep_ anymore before opening the damn door!" Arthur rails, although Merlin isn't really listening anymore in favor of poking at the still sleep-warm skin beneath his fingers. Arthur flinches back, but if the collision with the door had been as hard as it sounded, his forehead would be bruising already. The skin is merely reddening a little, going hot under Merlin's touch, probably in a belated reaction to the pain.

"I'm sorry, _sire_ ," Merlin replies testily, mostly to placate the prince as he wets a rag in the bucket of cold water Gaius left on the table for him to wash with. If he'd been half-asleep before, this whole incident was enough to jolt him quite awake by now. "Maybe you should have _knocked_ first, as you're always telling me to."

Arthur huffs indignantly as Merlin places the damp rag on his forehead and tips his head back so it won't slide off again, but doesn't reply, choosing to elaborately grimace in pain instead. He still looks a little pink, and Merlin turns away to hide his eye-roll, convinced that it can't hurt that much anymore—he knows he only would have had reason to worry if Arthur had kept a carefully straight face.

"What are you doing here at this ungodly hour, anyway?" Merlin asks as he dries his hands on his breeches, making a beeline for the bowl of porridge Gaius has left for him to find on the hearth. He hungrily scoops a spoonful into his mouth, grateful to find that it's still warm—although the first snow of the season hasn't fallen just yet, the mornings are already as cold as if autumn had already proceeded well into winter.

"The hour is perfectly reasonable for people who _aren't_ worthless layabouts—," Arthur begins, but then he stops as abruptly as if someone had put a silencing spell on him. Merlin frowns and turns back around to face him, and stops mid-chew.

Arthur is staring at something just above Merlin's left shoulder, his eyes losing their focus as a puzzled frown begins to form on his forehead. To Merlin's annoyance, the wet cloth slides off his face to land in his lap, but Arthur doesn't seem to notice. 

"What _am_ I doing here?" he murmurs, almost to himself; he lifts a hand to his head as though it's still aching, dazedly looking towards the door and then back to Merlin as if retracing the steps that have brought him here. He's probably about to pledge momentary insanity and claim that Merlin's supposed mental affliction is catching—and really, it's just _unfair_ that Merlin has to be the butt of early-morning jokes _on top_ of having to put up with the prince's twisted sense of humor in broad daylight.

"Very funny," Merlin retorts when he's swallowed his mouthful, mildly annoyed that Arthur can't even wait for him to strengthen his wits with breakfast before having a laugh at his expense. "I can hardly contain my amusement. If the whole crown prince thing doesn't work out, you could always apply for a position as the court jester."

He watches, unimpressed, as Arthur's stupefied stare travels across the workbench next to him like he's seeing it for the first time. "Shut up," he replies, rather belatedly, starting to look a little wild and also very much confused. He makes quite a picture, sitting in a ray of morning sunlight with tufts of disheveled golden hair sticking up at ridiculous angles, still in his night clothes and a well-faked, lost expression on his face.

"I was in _bed_ ," Arthur says vehemently, as if trying to convince some higher being that might be listening. "I went to bed last night— I _slept_ , I know I did, and then you smashed a door into my face and I woke up."

He turns his accusing gaze on Merlin, like it's _his_ fault that his brain is addled (which it very well might be, after that blow to the head); Merlin stops chewing again at the look on Arthur's face, starting to frown as well. Arthur isn't joking, he realizes with a start—the alarmed, maybe even slightly frightened glint in his eyes is real, and Merlin swallows with some difficulty before asking, "Did you hit your head really hard last night?"

" _No_ ," Arthur snaps, raking his fingers through his hair and making it stick up even more; he scrubs a hand across his face as though hoping to wake himself up again, but all traces of sleepiness are gone from his features. "I just went to bed— I lay awake for a while thinking of that woman we met—"

Merlin grimaces at the memory, the previous day's events rushing back into his mind, unbidden; trust Arthur to find a malevolent sorceress even in that tiny, run-down tavern they'd stopped in for a short lunch during their prolonged hunting trip. Well, she probably would have let them be, if Arthur hadn't tried to _chat her up_ because she'd also happened to be rather pretty.

He shakes his head to clear it of the memory of her enraged face, refocusing his gaze on Arthur. "Well, you drank rather a lot of wine at dinner," he replies, and deliberately doesn't add _'since your father didn't dignify the stag we brought home with more than a disapproving look because its antlers were too small to look good on a wall'_. "Maybe you're just hungover?"

Arthur snorts, his face regaining a bit of its usual color; Merlin hadn't noticed how pale he'd gotten, looking from the workbench to Merlin and back again in a somewhat desperate attempt to make sense of it all. "I can't really tell how much of my headache comes from last night's wine anymore," he retorts with a pointed look at the door to Merlin's room.

Merlin smiles at that, ducking his head. "Sorry about that, really," he says, a little sheepishly. "Does it hurt badly?"

Arthur absently peels the wet cloth off his thigh to place it on the workbench. "I've had worse," he replies loftily, at last sounding more like himself; now that he's made most of whining elaborately while Merlin was disgruntled, he's free to do a complete turnabout and wave his concern away when it becomes genuine. Not entirely convinced, Merlin leans forward, reaching out a hand to brush the disheveled fringe from Arthur's face to check for bruising one last time.

Arthur surprises him by flinching back, clearing his throat as he turns his head away. "I'm _fine_ , Merlin, stop fussing," he says brusquely, although his face still looks unusually flushed. But he stands up before Merlin can even open his mouth to protest, blinking and putting a hand on the table to steady himself when his head seems to protest with a twinge of pain.

"If you're sure," Merlin replies doubtfully, lowering his hand back to his side. Normally he'd just crowd into Arthur's space and take a look at his forehead anyway, but there's something strangely cornered in Arthur's eyes, a tightness in the set of his shoulders that warns Merlin off.

"Right," Arthur says, to no one in particular, and coughs. He seems almost flustered, although Merlin has no idea why. "I'll just—"

He gestures vaguely at the door, gives Merlin a curt nod and decisively crosses the room. He's probably still unsettled from waking up here instead of in his room, Merlin thinks, watching Arthur go despite the instinctive urge to stop him; sure, walking in one's sleep is not unheard of, but Arthur has never done it before in the nearly two years Merlin has been serving him.

Only when the door closes behind the prince does Merlin realize that Arthur didn't ask him to come along to help him dress.

* * *

The rest of the day passes like any other. After a slightly belated breakfast, Arthur seems to be back in good spirits, appearing to have forgotten all about his nightly adventure, if the renewed vigor with which he drills his knights is anything to go by. And so Merlin doesn't mention the whole thing to Gaius when the physician stops by the training grounds to send him into the woods to collect herbs. The autumnal chill permeating the thick stone walls of the castle has resulted in a rapid spread of sore throats and runny noses—apparently Gaius wants to restock his supply of cold remedies in time for the onset of the year's coldest season.

Merlin spends most of the afternoon letting the dew from the undergrowth slowly soak into his boots as he bends down to pick peppermint and sage, sucking in the cold, clear air in deep, refreshing breaths when sweat starts to bead on his forehead. He's always loved this season, the slow, unhurried transition from bright, sweltering summer heat into the icy, permeating hush of winter. Fog collects on the fields in the mornings, retreating back to the edge of the forest at sunrise but never quite dissipating, hovering in the shadowed spaces beneath the trees as if lurking in wait. The air gradually grows colder, but it's a crisp, cleansing sort of cold, not yet the brutally icy atmosphere of winter.

He used to help with the harvest in Ealdor, felling long, proud stalks of crops with the practiced (if, in his case, slightly clumsy) sweep of a scythe and digging turnips out of the ground before it freezes. Collecting herbs is the next best thing, though, and Merlin stays in the forest until late afternoon, watching the sun turn the fog into glittering, otherworldly clouds of mist, and by the time he returns to the castle he's almost forgotten about his and Arthur's strange encounter.

On the next morning, Merlin bounds down the stairs into Gaius' room just in time to see Arthur close the door behind himself, still in his sleeping attire once again, with the same vacant look in his eyes that Merlin had seen the day before.

"Bugger," Merlin says, instinctively lowering his voice so as not to wake Arthur. It's obvious that he's asleep; his blue eyes seem oddly dulled, the usually vibrant color glazed over with a silvery sheen. His movements are slower than normal, although not by much—he pauses for a moment before he begins to cross the room with steady steps that are only slightly uneven.

He seems to be heading for Merlin's room again, unseeing eyes passing over Merlin without any hint of recognition. With a quick downwards glance, Merlin notices that Arthur must have put on his boots in his sleep this time, and apparently took a detour through the fields or the gardens. The leather is matted down with wetness, damp streaks criss-crossing his trousers up to his knees as though he's been wandering through grass heavy with dew.

Merlin has heard it said that sleepwalkers can die of shock when woken too suddenly, but although yesterday's encounter with the solid wooden door didn't kill Arthur either, he still hesitates for a long moment. He reaches out to touch Arthur's shoulder, briefly noticing how cold his skin feels even through his shirt—he really must have gone outside then, in nothing but his thin night clothes—and finally gives him a gentle shake. 

"So it wasn't a one-off thing," Merlin states carefully, when he's coaxed Arthur down from his initial shock at once again not waking up in his bed. 

He's raided Gaius' cupboard for a small mug of the strong ale he stores there, grateful for his mentor's absence as he'd thrust it into Arthur's hands and watched him down it in one big gulp. Arthur started shaking with cold as soon as he woke up, as though his body had been indifferent to the temperature while asleep, and he didn't even protest when Merlin dragged his blankets from his bed to bundle them tightly around the prince's shoulders.

Arthur doesn't reply. He still seems shell-shocked, and hasn't moved from where Merlin pushed him down to sit on the bench in much the same way as yesterday; but this time, Merlin sat down beside him after pouring a little of the ale for himself. His shaking has abated and he doesn't look quite as pale anymore, but he still can't seem to stop his eyes from returning to Gaius' door again and again, obviously hoping that whatever happened to him will make sense if he only stares at the passage he's taken for long enough.

There are small sprigs and bits of dried leaves in Arthur's hair, as if he's taken a detour into the woods in his sleep. Merlin unthinkingly reaches over to brush them away, combing through the soft golden strands, and idly watches the way they gleam between his fingers in the morning sunlight that has finally managed to creep over the windowsill. Predictably, Arthur twitches away after a moment, but Merlin just tuts at him and yanks at an errant strand of hair in reproach until Arthur stills again and lets him pick out the last of the twigs.

"This can't happen again," Arthur says at last, his voice rough with disuse and the last vestiges of sleep. "The crown prince of Camelot can't be seen roaming the castle in his night shift, Merlin."

Merlin bristles, immediately realizing whom the reproach in Arthur's voice is really directed at, although Arthur even added his name to make it sound like the whole thing is his doing. "It wasn't your fault, you insufferable— _person_ ," he quickly amends, when Arthur throws him a sharp look, "you were _asleep_."

Arthur scoffs, still refusing to look Merlin fully in the eye, and Merlin reluctantly lets his hand drop although he'd very much like to yank Arthur's head around by his hair to force him to meet his gaze. It's not like anyone even saw him walking around at night—if he had encountered even a lowly guard, they surely would have at least stopped him to ask if he was all right, and that probably would have woken him up. But Merlin still understands his distress, although Arthur made it here undisturbed. _He_ is certainly no crown prince of anything, and he still doesn't like the idea of bumbling off to God knows where in his sleep, not knowing where he might wake up, especially if it just started completely out of the blue like this.

"I'll look through Gaius' books," Merlin continues after a moment; this time, Arthur does turn around, if only to level a dubious glance at him. Merlin straightens up, trying to look like a competent physician's apprentice. "You go ahead and have something to eat, and I'll meet you in your chambers if I find anything."

Arthur's jaw tightens in that familiar way that means he's suppressing a smile, but Merlin counts it as a victory anyway, since the shaken, hollow look melts out of his eyes, too. "So you're suggesting I fetch my own breakfast," Arthur deadpans, taking great care to sound suitably scandalized, and Merlin breathes out, feeling relief lessen the tight, uneasy feeling in his chest.

"Well, I'm certainly not sharing mine," he replies defensively, getting up and moving over to one of the numerous bookshelves so Arthur won't see his grin. It wouldn't do to give off the impression he's getting _soft_ or anything.

Arthur scoffs at that, and Merlin hears the bench creak as he rises and shrugs off the cocoon of blankets. "I don't even _want_ your breakfast," he points out, but Merlin notices that he's already halfway to the door—apparently the mention of food reminded him of just how long it's been since last night's dinner. "And you'd do well to eat it yourself, it might help you to put on some meat. You're not allowed to freeze to death this winter because you're too skinny to sustain any warmth at all."

Merlin dutifully waits for the door to close before sticking out his tongue at the wooden frame, and turns back to the bookshelf.

He distractedly eats the bread and cheese Gaius left for him while poring over thick tomes filled with lists of herbs and recipes for potions, but it's not long until he digs out his magic book from beneath the floorboards of his room. It's almost ridiculous how used he's grown to the way Arthur keeps getting into magical trouble wherever he goes, so Merlin feels vindicated in assuming that this ailment is the result of sorcery as well. He props it up on the impressive pile of books he's made on the desk, leafing through the pages while he finishes off the glass of warm honeyed milk from the hearth.

Half an hour later, he shuts the book again, sighing deeply and feeling oddly betrayed. He found sleeping spells, spells to rouse someone from a magic-induced sleep (he memorized that one just in case, although he's rather sure it won't work), and a lot of rather disturbing enchantments to influence someone's dreams. But sleepwalking isn't mentioned even once, at least not in connection with magic. One of Gaius' books had a short paragraph, though, something about how this strange affliction has mostly been witnessed in people going through a time of mental turmoil, as though even sleep can't make their minds let go from whatever is troubling them.

But Arthur isn't in a state of mental turmoil, at least not that Merlin knows of, and he thinks he's gotten pretty good at reading the prince's moods—even those he doesn't want Merlin to know about—during the past two years. The paragraph also informed him that sleepwalkers usually perform activities mirroring their daily pursuits when asleep, but Arthur didn't do that either. As far as Merlin can tell, he just took a random walk through the castle grounds before coming back to his room just as he had done the night before.

He downs the last of his milk, once again recalling the empty expression on Arthur's face, the sluggishness of his movements that was so at odds with his usual decisive, alluring grace. The vacant, glazed look in his eyes still sticks uncomfortably in Merlin's memory, strengthening the nagging suspicion of magic being the cause of the whole thing. He's seen a similar look in Arthur's eyes once before, when Merlin had broken from the cover of the trees just in time to see his prince calmly walk into a lake in full armor, and the memory still makes him shudder inwardly.

Arthur's eyes had been red then, just a brief, sudden flash, but clearly visible in the light coming in through the windows of his room when Merlin had implored him to listen. He frowns, staring sightlessly at the table as he remembers the silver he thought he saw in Arthur's eyes earlier. Then the memory of their encounter with the sorceress two days before rushes back into his mind, and he thinks, _oh fuck_.

* * *

It hadn't even been a real spell, at least none that Merlin recognized, because the sorceress hadn't switched to the foreign and yet familiar rise and fall of the language of magic to tell Arthur what exactly she thought of him and his advances. The situation had been too bizarrely funny for Merlin to realize what was going on right away—right then, he'd been perfectly content to lean back and watch Arthur's charm backfire in a rather entertaining way.

The prince's gaze had zeroed in on the dark-haired woman as soon as they'd entered the tavern, and Merlin had just heaved an exasperated sigh when he made a beeline for her table, bowing to her rather courteously and asking if she'd allow him the honor of paying for her goblet of wine.

True, she _had_ stared rather incredulously, and anyone else would have taken the hint and backed off; but predictably, Arthur had refused to back down from what he must have viewed as a challenge. He'd sat down in the chair next to hers, waving over one of the serving girls to order a large lunch for three, with Merlin unhappily trailing after him.

In hindsight, the long, hard, searching look with which the woman fixed Arthur _does_ seem rather strange; even then, Merlin had thought that she almost seemed to try to read his mind. She'd simply ignored Arthur's flattering comments about how well and fresh she looked even after having traveled all day. When Merlin had finally sat down, she passed a quick, inquiring look between them that rapidly moved to understanding (though _what_ she'd understood, Merlin has no idea even now). 

Then she'd spoken for the first time, in a clear, commanding voice, and said, "Why do you go to such lengths to deny yourself that which your soul craves?"

To which Arthur had replied, gallantly, that his soul only craved to be of aid to lone travelers who also happened to be the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen (and _boy_ , has Merlin heard that one before).

The woman had stared at him for such a long time that Merlin started to feel slightly uncomfortable, but Arthur had been oblivious to her intense scrutiny. He remarked about the beautiful weather (a rather annoying autumn drizzle), surreptitiously mentioning the majestic stag they'd been tracking all morning (Merlin had managed to startle a few rabbits out of hiding when he tripped over a root for the umpteenth time, but they hadn't seen any other game all morning). He praised the extraordinary lunch they were brought (overcooked meat swimming in some broth of questionable nature), and interspersed his chatter with the occasional flattering comment on the woman's silky black hair, sky-blue eyes and flawlessly white skin (which, well, Merlin couldn't argue with that, since she really was beautiful).

"I do not understand," the woman had finally said, interrupting Arthur mid-sentence, and passed another lingering look between him and Merlin, this one slightly confused. "Why are you wasting your charm on me, when I am not the one who holds the key to your heart?"

Then Arthur, searching desperately for just the staggering sort of compliment to finally crack her icy veneer, had leaned over to whisper (although Merlin had been perfectly able to hear even from the other side of the table) that she _did_ hold the key for something else entirely.

It might have been his uncharacteristically crude choice of words that angered her, or even just his persistence. When Merlin had lowered his palm from where he'd slapped it to his forehead in commiserative embarrassment, the woman had risen from her chair, drawing herself up to her full height to tower over Arthur in outrage. Her hair had flown beautifully as she tossed the thick strands over her shoulder, her eyes had still looked extraordinarily blue even under the dark loom of her eyebrows, and Arthur had just stared at her open-mouthed, apparently struck silent with the effect his words had had.

He'd ignored Merlin's mutter of, "Arthur, I think we should go," and didn't even seem to feel the not-so-gentle tug on his sleeve. The woman ignored Merlin too, as well as several other guests who had stopped eating and drinking to stare, and pointed a slender white finger at Arthur, hand quivering slightly with the force of her anger.

"You are a foul-mouthed pig _as well_ as a blind oaf!" she'd exclaimed, her voice carrying quite conveniently in the silence that had quickly descended on the tavern like a quiet, impenetrable curtain. "You are too preoccupied with deceiving your own heart to see what's right in front of you!"

Merlin had finally succeeded in kicking Arthur in the calf until he rose from his seat as well, but the prince wouldn't budge when Merlin tried to steer him towards the door. It had been too late, anyway; the woman had taken a deep, dramatic breath, flinging her hair back again.

"I curse you, Arthur Pendragon," she'd intoned in a deep, dramatic voice (even then, Merlin had briefly wondered how she knew Arthur's name, since they'd been trying to stay incognito), "I curse you in your unseeing arrogance, so that you may continue wasting your time denying your soul the counterpart it seeks, but shall roam the lands in your hours of rest, doomed to retrace the path of the one your heart holds dear until you open your eyes!"

In the permeating hush that followed, Merlin had finally managed to drag Arthur through the room and out into the rain, kicking the door shut behind them.

Arthur probably didn't even realize she was a sorceress; it had been quite clear from his scandalized expression that he'd written her off as a madwoman. But Merlin had felt the sudden crackle of magic in the air, and tensed instinctively at the answering surge of energy in his blood, ready to protect or lash out if she so much as _breathed_ a word of magic in Arthur's general direction. 

The woman's gaze had briefly flickered to him as if sensing his unspoken threat, but she hadn't made any move to chant a spell. She'd simply looked at him with satisfaction in her eyes, holding Merlin's gaze until the door had shut between them.

Merlin sighs again, refocusing his mind on the present with some difficulty. They'd just been _hunting_ , for heaven's sake, but of course Arthur had had to turn the whole thing into one of his crazy, life-threatening adventures by pissing off random sorcerers who'd been minding their own business. He's just lucky that sleepwalking isn't quite as life-threatening as the antics he usually gets up to, Merlin thinks sourly, and goes back to his room in search of his coat.

* * *

Merlin makes a quick detour to Arthur's chambers to tell him that he hasn't found anything yet but feels he's close to discovering a remedy, and cites the necessity of seeing Gaius as the reason why he absolutely _has_ to have the rest of the day off. Arthur looks doubtful but gives him his leave anyway, and even refrains from reminding Merlin that he'll have to catch up on his chores the next day. It's another sign of how much the whole matter is bothering him, although it started merely two days ago, and Merlin can't help feeling slightly guilty when he crosses the drawbridge and heads for the forest.

The walk to the tavern doesn't take nearly as long as Merlin had thought it would; apparently he's faster when not weighed down with hunting gear, a packed lunch, and an extra coat for Arthur. It looks far more inviting coated in sunlight than in rain, tucked into the edge of a small clearing surrounded by tall trees. Their leaves have already changed color to various shades of brown, yellow and red, although there are still a few specks of green resisting the onset of autumn.

Arthur's strange brand of luck must have rubbed off on Merlin, because when he pushes through the creaky door of the tavern, he immediately collides with the black-haired sorceress.

"Oh, damn," she says, doubtlessly recognizing him, but doesn't resist when he crowds her back into the room—rather more rudely than he'd have liked, but he can't let her get away. She looks different from before, her hair tangled into a messy bun on top of her head, dark circles under alarmed eyes as she backs away from Merlin, giving him a restless, wary once-over.

Merlin folds his arms across his chest, quickly surveying the room—but aside from the innkeeper and a serving girl who flees into the kitchen when he meets her eyes, they're alone. He tries to glare at the sorceress, which is sort of hard, given the defeated look on her face, and says, as imperiously as he can, "Two days ago you put a curse on my friend. In the meantime we've both come to the conclusion that sleepwalking isn't funny. Now _undo it_."

She blinks at the lack of heroic bravado in his words, but then closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, as though the volume of his voice is giving her a headache. "Sleepwalking, huh," she mutters to herself, then shrugs and gives him a resigned look. "I can't undo it," she says, quite simply. "He has to lift the curse himself. Besides, I don't even remember that evening, so I can't do the dirty work for him now."

Merlin frowns, the wind momentarily taken out of his sails. He can only repeat, incredulously, "You don't _remember?_ "

"I was completely sloshed," she says, mournfully eyeing the door; Merlin shifts his stance to obscure her sight of the only way out. "What did I say?"

"You—um—you doomed Arthur to 'retrace the path of the one his heart holds dear', or something like that," Merlin answers, feeling a bit silly repeating the pompous words, now that her speech has lost its refined undercurrent.

"Oh," she says, rather blankly, and gives him a long, searching look; it reminds Merlin of the one she'd fixed Arthur with when he'd first addressed her, and he barely resists the urge to shuffle his feet. "Oh, you poor, sad bastard."

Merlin ignores that, trying to remember as much of her curse as he can instead. "So I have to— what?" he asks, recalling something about deceived hearts, soulmates, and stupidity. "Find his true love and take her to him, to make the sleepwalking stop?"

Now it's the woman's turn to frown, confusion slowly edging its way into her expression. "Are you blind as well as stupid?"

"What?"

"Nothing," she says, watching him with a new, calculating gleam in her eyes. "You see, I usually just weave magic traps like this for my enemies to fall into, but I find it's a nice pastime to place my curses on idiots who are too stupid to see what's right in front of them. More entertaining, you know."

"That is _not helping_ ," Merlin points out, annoyed; overall, he thinks the situation is getting rather out of hand. He thought he'd just bully her into lifting the curse and have the whole thing over and done with, maybe throw his weird druid name around for good measure. But now he just feels silly, standing in an empty, run-down tavern in the middle of the woods trying to intimidate a hungover sorceress.

The woman just sighs, rubbing a tired hand across her forehead like she's still feeling the headache from two days before. "So," she says, rather conversationally, if also with a slightly resigned undertone, "are you going to turn me to stone or conjure some monster to eat me or what?"

Merlin considers that. "No," he answers lamely, because even when putting the curse on Arthur, she hadn't been out for his life but rather his supposed blindness, whatever that might mean—and she appears to be rather harmless overall.

She seems to sense his hesitation, and shoulders her way past him and out the door before Merlin can so much as blink. Sighing heavily, he follows her outside into the brilliant sunlight, watching as she mounts a small, rather haggard-looking horse he hadn't noticed before, seeming intent on leaving, now that he's done interrogating her.

"Besides, you might want to think about leaving Camelot," Merlin informs her as she turns the horse towards one of the forest tracks leading away from the clearing. "Magic tends to be sort of frowned upon around here."

"You're one to talk," she mutters, just loudly enough for him to hear, and gently nudges her horse forward with a slightly scuffed boot.

It would have been more dramatic if she'd kicked the animal into a mad canter. Merlin watches their slow progress across the clearing, thinking that the whole situation was rather ridiculously anticlimactic and a complete waste of time. He isn't really any closer to helping Arthur out of this weird mess, since he has no idea whatsoever where to even _start_ searching for the sort of lady who'd overlook his arrogance, his stubbornness and the rest of his annoying characteristics and graciously agree to being his true love.

The horse stops briefly to tug a bunch of reddened leaves from the nearest tree branch. Then it begins the long trek up the forest track its rider has chosen, tail swishing errantly to chase stray flies away, and soon they've disappeared beneath the canopy of trees, the sound of hoofbeats on grass fading into the distance.

* * *

Merlin returns to the castle in the early afternoon, feeling rather useless after his unsuccessful talk with the sorceress, and immediately puts his excess energy to good use by getting into a prolonged argument with Arthur that lasts for the rest of the day.

Finally, after threatening to put Merlin in the stocks for the supposed impropriety of what he's suggesting, mysteriously reddening whenever Merlin points out that it's perfectly normal for manservants to sleep close to their masters, and generally making an ass out of himself over nothing, Arthur agrees to let Merlin stay in the unoccupied antechamber next to his room. Merlin knows he's so heavy a sleeper that he probably won't hear Arthur get up, but he resents the idea of being in his room on the other side of the castle while Arthur sleepwalks down narrow staircases and across the uneven flagstones of the courtyard. But Arthur would never let him live it down if Merlin let his concern show, and so he makes a show of gloating over his victory while he hails a passing servant and orders up Arthur's dinner.

The argument must have exhausted Arthur's stubborn streak—or maybe he's just too preoccupied with the thought of where he might wake up the next morning—because he doesn't protest further when Merlin makes a show of dumping a bundle of blankets on the unused bed in the small room next to his own. He just looks at something to Merlin's left, his face still a little flushed, and absently tugs at the claw-shaped pendant hanging from his necklace, as though to jolt himself out of his thoughts with the bite of leather into his neck.

The sight makes Merlin's fingers itch, and so he allows himself a moment to survey his new—if temporary—lodgings. The room looks more like a broom closet than a space designed for someone of normal height to occupy; the narrow bed barely fits into one corner, with a small cupboard that looks like it might fall over any moment squeezed into the other. The sky outside tiny window near the ceiling is dark, clouded over and not even scattered with stars.

He busies himself with lighting candles and stoking the fire in Arthur's room, studiously ignoring Arthur's uncharacteristic silence until the servant returns with a plate piled high with food. The he sits down next to Arthur, watches him polish off an impressive helping of roast venison, and stares at the honeyed bread for a few minutes until Arthur lets out a soft chuff of laughter and shoves his plate across the table into Merlin's reach.

Merlin grins, feeling the inexplicable tension between them ease ever-so-slightly until the silence has grown comfortable rather than oppressive. He eats slowly, savoring each drop of honey and picking every fallen crumb off the plate, the sticky sweetness distracting him from the short glances Arthur keeps shooting him, almost as if he doesn't want Merlin to notice. It could just be a trick of the flickering candlelight, but Merlin thinks he sees him swallow repeatedly, although his mouth can't be dry with how often he reaches for his goblet, taking deep draughts of water as if to calm himself. Merlin gives a mental shrug and ignores the inquisitive thread of concern weaving its way through his thoughts—Arthur is probably still mad at him for quite literally shouldering his way into the antechamber for the night.

He lifts the last piece of bread to his mouth, pausing briefly to lick stray drops of honey from his fingers—as sweet as it is, it gets _everywhere_ —and watches Arthur's eyes go wide and dark, his throat working around a dry swallow. Pausing in the middle of sucking honey off his thumb, Merlin offers the bread to him, but Arthur just shakes his head, face closing down with sudden discomfort as he pushes his own plate away.

When Merlin lies in bed that night, listening to the wind howling around the battlements, he realizes that Arthur looked disappointed just then, strangely hopeless, even. Which makes no sense at all, Merlin thinks firmly to himself, once again ignoring the instinctive concern for his prince's well-being. If he'd wanted that last piece of bread after all, he just should have asked for it, Merlin concludes, and pushes his head deeper into the lumpy pillow in an attempt to get more comfortable.

* * *

He isn't sure what wakes him, whether he really did hear something from Arthur's chambers or if it was just a strange dream rousing him back into full consciousness. But Merlin jolts awake with a start that suggests the former, and is halfway out of bed before he fully realizes what he's doing. It takes him a moment to notice that he's not in his own room, and then the memory of their new sleeping arrangement rushes back into his mind, and he collides with the cupboard in his haste to open the door.

The room is dark and quiet, rays of moonlight throwing shafts of brightness on the floor where the curtains have parted. Arthur's boots and coat are gone, and so is Arthur himself, although the disarray of sheets on the bed shows that he did rest undisturbed, if only for a few hours. The door is closed—Arthur must have shut it neatly behind himself upon leaving to wherever he's headed tonight.

Merlin lets out a curse that his mother surely would have washed his mouth out for, had she been there to hear it. He trips back into the antechamber to hastily tug on his boots and a coat, throws open the door, and starts running.

* * *

Arthur is not in Gaius' study, not in the stables and not anywhere near the throne room, and finally, Merlin is desperate and worried enough to use a location spell. He lets the burn of magic pull him across the drawbridge and towards the forest, his soft footfalls on dewy grass and the crickets' chirping the only sounds breaking the nightly quietude. The clouds have drifted away, the large waxing moon casting his path into an unearthly blueish light that makes him trip over hidden stones, but he doesn't slow down. He _can't_ slow down, not with Arthur wandering through the forest unaware of where he's going and why.

Silence seems to billow out from the trees to engulf him when he reaches the woods. His steps are muted on the mossy underground, and even the occasional cry of a far-away owl gets swallowed up by the canopy of branches above. Arthur seems to be heading in roughly the general direction they took on their hunting trip, choosing the same winding, slightly uneven trail that Merlin had followed to the tavern just a couple of hours ago. Merlin quickens his steps, trying not to make too much noise, and prays to all the Gods that might be listening not to let Arthur run into any nocturnal boars.

Asleep, Arthur doesn't move with the same decisive swiftness of his waking hours. It takes Merlin a surprisingly short time to find him, and he lets out a tremendous sigh of relief when he finally catches a glimpse of Arthur's red coat through the trees. He jogs the rest of the way, easily catching up with Arthur's slow, dragging steps, and just hovers next to him for a moment, unsure what to do.

"Arthur?" he whispers, anxiously checking his slack features for any hint of recognition. "Arthur? Sire?"

Arthur doesn't even blink. He just keeps walking, swaying a little whenever his booted feet catch on a root or stone, and Merlin cautiously reaches out to touch his arm as lightly as he can. Encouraged by the lack of any discernible reaction, he starts pulling on the fabric of his sleeve, very carefully, and whispers, "Arthur, stop. Please stop now."

Miraculously, Arthur does; it seems to take a moment for his sleeping mind to process the words, but then his steps slow even more and finally drag to a halt. The moonlight illuminates his face just enough for Merlin to see his vacant expression, the way his eyes stare straight ahead although Merlin is right next to him. His coat is unbuttoned, hair still sleep-rumpled, and he doesn't seem to notice the chill in the air, or the wet forest floor squelching beneath his boots and slowly soaking through the leather.

Merlin swallows heavily. His heart is pounding, although he's not sure why. "Let's go back," he says, pitching his voice to a low, soothing timbre, "let's get you back to your room, Arthur, okay? We'll just go back the way we've come, it's not far, you must be cold. Just follow me, yeah?"

He slides his fingers down Arthur's sleeve, and holds his breath when his hand touches skin. But Arthur doesn't stir, and his eyes remain glassy and unfocused even when Merlin slips his hand into Arthur's, careful not to grip it too tightly when he slowly coaxes him to turn back around.

Arthur follows his lead again, the way he never does when he's awake—Merlin would laugh at the sheer irony if he didn't feel like there's a clenched fist tightening in his gut, squeezing a strange ache into his muscles. His breath is coming in unsteady bursts, chest tightening against the chill that creeps underneath his jacket. He starts walking very slowly, keeping his gaze on Arthur's impassive face, but Arthur just follows him with still unsteady steps at the light tug on his hand, his expression never changing. Merlin releases a quiet sigh of relief and falls into step next to him, trying to keep an eye out for tree roots and stones.

They make their way back like that, advancing slowly beneath the towering shapes of looming trees, their path only lit by the occasional ray of moonlight filtering through the canopy of leaves. Merlin is careful not to grip Arthur's fingers too tightly, because he really doesn't want to explain to a wide-awake crown prince why they're holding hands in the forest in the middle of the night. He keeps up a steady stream of quiet chatter, afraid that the absence of his voice would startle Arthur awake now that he's started talking, keeping his tone even and calm although his heart is still beating way too quickly.

"Just follow me, I'll take you back to your room," he says, so focused on glancing between the ground and Arthur's face that he nearly cracks his head on a low-hanging branch. "Your room is warm, Arthur, I stoked the fire before we went to bed. You don't need to be out here, it's just a stupid curse from an incompetent sorceress, but I'll find a way to lift it, I promise, it'll be okay."

Arthur never reacts, doesn't even twitch when an owl shrieks nearby and a small flock of nocturnal birds takes off into the night sky in a flutter of wings. They're emerging from the forest, stepping out onto the rocky road leading to the castle, and from there onwards, the rest of their way seems easy. He carefully steers Arthur around puddles, although they do get mud on their boots, and feels his heart go lighter and lighter the nearer they come to the castle.

Despite his increasing relief, Merlin can't help wondering what goes on in Arthur's mind, in the small, half-awake part of it that has succumbed to the spell and brought him out here. Merlin has never been enchanted, despite his life-long experience with magic—he doesn't know how it feels to completely lose control of his body and mind like this. But he thinks if _he_ were forced to roam the castle grounds at night in search of something he has no idea how to find, he would be scared.

"You're doing great, just keep walking," he murmurs, through a curiously tight throat, and just barely manages to rein in the urge to give Arthur's hand a reassuring squeeze, or reach up to trail shaking fingers over the pale, chilled skin of his neck in comfort. "Trust me, Arthur, you'll be fine. I'll keep you safe."

It could be just his imagination, but Arthur seems a little more pliant after that, obediently stopping to hide in the shadow beneath the gate until the guards on the battlements have trudged past them on their nightly patrol. Merlin quickly tugs him across the courtyard and up into a stairwell, taking care to warn him about the steps in a whisper; Arthur mounts them easily, though with the slowness that seems to be characteristic of sleepwalking. They don't run into any guards, but Merlin's pulse only resettles into its normal pattern when he's finally closed the door of Arthur's chambers behind them.

He carefully disentangles his fingers from Arthur's when he's deposited him on the bed, and Arthur just sleeps on with open eyes, oblivious. Merlin takes off his boots and jacket, expecting him to wake any second, now that he's touching him and sliding the thick coat off his arms, but the restless, enchanted part of his mind seems to be soothed by the familiarity of his room. Arthur's eyelids start to droop as soon as Merlin has put the boots away, and Merlin gently tells him to lie down if he feels sleepy.

He didn't know that people could just drop back into true rest even after walking around in their sleep, but Arthur does. His eyes close as soon as his head hits the pillow, and a mere second later, his breathing settles into the slow, deep pattern of real sleep, as if he'd just laid down after an exhausting day.

Merlin just watches him for a moment, takes in the oddly young, relaxed look on his features. Then he tugs the blankets up to Arthur's chin, smiling when Arthur immediately huffs out an indignant breath and pushes them back down without waking. He quietly retreats to the antechamber without finding the reason why his heart is still pounding too quickly, and lies awake for a long time, doing his best to ignore the strange, achy feeling lodged deep beneath his ribs.

* * *

Arthur is oddly quiet the next morning, a tiny, troubled crease taking permanent residence between his eyebrows when Merlin joins him for breakfast. He overslept quite outrageously, and so Arthur must have ordered some passing servant to fetch his meal, but the reprimand he expects never comes.

They eat in the sort of silence that feels too heavy even for Merlin to break with idle chatter. He sits by the window afterwards, chipping flakes of dried mud off the boots Arthur wore last night and sneaking surreptitious glances at where Arthur is making a valiant effort to concentrate on a pile of official-looking papers. He's just as distracted as Merlin is, though, keeps looking back at him when he thinks Merlin doesn't notice, quickly-hidden, unreadable gazes that set Merlin's teeth on edge, although he doesn't know why.

Arthur finally clears his throat, after a few minutes of staring at the same paragraph with unmoving eyes, and asks, tentatively, "I didn't... go out last night?"

"Mmm," Merlin hums, pretending to concentrate on rubbing a stubborn stain out of Arthur's left boot. He doesn't want to tell Arthur about their nightly walk, resents the idea of troubling him over something he can't control, and Arthur obviously has no memory of the night before. 

The leather is soft beneath his hands, conveniently distracting because he still remembers the way Arthur's hand felt in his, broad and strong and trusting even in his sleep. The memory makes his insides flutter strangely, like the wings of a startled bird. But Merlin knows he will answer truthfully if Arthur asks him again, although both of them woke up in their respective beds this morning and he doesn't see any reason for making Arthur worry needlessly.

Arthur doesn't, though. He just gives Merlin a lingering look that feels like a physical touch, and turns back to the papers he's poring over. But his shoulders seems to relax, letting go of a tension he'd been carrying with him all morning, and Merlin turns back to the boot in his hands, his chest finally feeling a little lighter.

A nearly inaudible whisper of magic later, the stain finally comes out, and Merlin stretches, depositing the boots next to the table on his way to Arthur's wardrobe. "I told you," he remarks airily as he rummages through the clothes inside, searching for the winter coats to see if they need mending. "Sleeping in the antechamber was a good idea."

The snappy retort Merlin expected never comes, though, and when he turns around, the look on Arthur's face startles him. He looks as deeply uncomfortable as Merlin has ever seen him, a strange, awkward embarrassment worked into the tense curve of his jaw and lurking beneath the wrinkles on his forehead. It's the same inexplicably mortified look from the day before, when Merlin had argued his way into the antechamber, but this time, Arthur's eyes have gone dark with something that almost looks like self-loathing.

Fortunately Arthur's gaze is still fixed on whatever treaty or report he's studying, so he doesn't see Merlin stand there gaping at him for a full minute, fur-lined coats in hand. He contemplates telling Arthur to stop being an idiot and just accept that the whole thing is _not his fault_ already, but then he'd probably have to tell him about the sorceress. Or he could trip spectacularly over the rug and hope that Arthur would be too distracted by mocking him to continue thinking about how it's unprincely to sleepwalk, or some nonsense like that. And Arthur would certainly not let him get away with pouring the pitcher of water over his head in the hopes of shocking his brain back into working order.

In the end he doesn't do any of those things, just retreats back to his seat at the window and inspects the bundle of clothes for holes and loose threads. He stays in Arthur's chambers for the rest of the day, dutifully mending his winter coats although Arthur mostly ignores him. It's not really a manservant's work, and Merlin knows this—usually he'd just dump the pile of coats on the head seamstress' table and ignore her dirty look. But no matter how often the needle pricks his finger, he needs a reason to stay, and this is as good an excuse as any.

Arthur keeps raising a hand from time to time to rub absently at his chest, a faint grimace of discomfort passing across his face. Merlin thinks he can probably feel the curse's magic crawling just beneath his skin, and concludes that Arthur must know that he's enchanted by now, although he never even said a word. It's puzzling, and he doesn't understand why he hasn't ridden out to find the sorceress yet—although Merlin certainly isn't one to complain, if Arthur's uncharacteristic silence means that no one will burn at the stake, however this episode ends.

But he just can't leave Arthur like this, when he's so obviously troubled about something that not even a late afternoon training session can take his mind off of. If Merlin didn't know better, he'd almost think Arthur _wishes_ he had walked around last night as well. Usually he'd simply assume that Arthur doesn't want to give him the satisfaction of actually having been helpful just by sleeping next door—but something tells him there's more to this.

Merlin wants to ask if it's because of the sleepwalking, since he's not so sure anymore, with how worked up Arthur got over the thing with the antechamber—but the words stick uncomfortably in his throat, refusing to come out. Over the two years they've known each other, Merlin has grown quite familiar with the twists and turns of Arthur's moods, and he usually knows when to provoke him into one of their bickering matches to make him blow off some steam and when to back off. But this is different, and it frustrates Merlin that he can't even say _how_ —he just knows it is.

It makes him feel clumsy and inadequate, this alien sensation of threading on thin ice even when he just makes some idle remark about how the autumn air is slowly starting to smell like snow. He's always known where he stood with Arthur—it has taken a lot of shoving and shouldering, but the place by Arthur's side has never been an unfamiliar one, even though they squabbled over every step of the way. 

This is new, though, and it'd be easy to think he's reading too much into it if it weren't for the closed-down look on Arthur's face whenever their gazes meet, however briefly, the sort of guarded vigilance Merlin never sees when they're alone. And Merlin can't ask, knows instinctively that pushing Arthur now would be the worst thing to do, and so he just keeps sewing, and Arthur keeps pretending to read, as the sun dips below the horizon.

* * *

To say that dinner is awkward would be the most grievous understatement of the day, and Merlin exhales the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding when he finally closes the door to the antechamber behind himself. He falls face-first onto his narrow bed after changing into his night clothes, dimly wondering at how tired he is although he just sat around in Arthur's chambers mending clothes. Then he decides that it's just been an emotionally exhausting day, tugs the blanket over his head, and falls asleep.

He wakes up what feels like mere minutes later, rubbing sleep from his eyes and wondering drowsily what roused him. The window above is dark, although the moon illuminates the room enough for Merlin to make out the dim outlines of the cupboard and the door.

Then he hears the footsteps coming from next door, the shuffling drag of unclothed feet on the rug in front of the hearth, and is out of bed and in Arthur's room before he can so much as blink.

Predictably, Arthur isn't in bed, but he's also not out the door yet, and Merlin heaves a sigh of relief as he shuts the door to the antechamber behind himself, briefly noticing that he must have forgotten to close the curtains, since the entire room is bathed in moonlight. For a moment he isn't even sure whether Arthur really is sleepwalking, but then he turns around to face Merlin, with an already familiar expressionless look on his face.

He doesn't even seem to be trying to get to the door, Merlin notices, puzzled; Arthur just shuffles over to the table, waiting there for a moment before proceeding towards the hearth. Merlin jolts forward as if tugged on an invisible string, brief fear sparking through his nerves at the glowing hot coals still resting there. But Arthur doesn't get too close, probably feeling the heat even in his sleep—he pauses again, next to the window this time, before pivoting on his heel and retracing his steps back towards the table.

It's almost heartbreaking to watch. If Merlin didn't know better, he'd think Arthur was trying to get out, forgetting the way to the door in his mostly-asleep state. But he escaped just fine last night, too, so Merlin concludes that can't be it—he seems to be looking for something, although there's no excitement or urgency in his sluggish movements.

He carefully steps further into the room, wincing at the chilling feeling of the icy stone floor against the bare soles of his feet. Whatever inclined him to stay still and watch has passed, and now he just wants to wake Arthur, stop his slow, oddly hopeless trek across the room in search of something he won't find here. Merlin walks around Arthur when he stops by the window again, and puts both hands on his arms, the muscles under his hands warm and pliant with sleep.

"Arthur," he says, deciding not to wonder why his voice comes out soft and unguarded, sounding almost tender instead of decisive. "Arthur, wake up."

Although he'd been prepared for Arthur to start and instinctively jerk back from his hands, the prince takes his waking slow. He blinks once, twice, and then his eyes refocus on Merlin's, a drowsy sort of recognition slowly taking over his features.

"M'lin?" he slurs, swaying forward a little, and Merlin tightens his hold to steady him, realizing that Arthur isn't much more awake than he was just a moment ago. His eyes keep drooping closed, and Merlin feels the muscles under his hands tense weakly as though fighting the heavy pull of real, restful sleep that's trying to engulf Arthur, now that the curse has run its course for the night.

Without a word, Merlin steers him towards the bed, trying to keep him from stumbling without waking him up more, and gently coaxes him to lie down with a hand on his shoulder. Arthur murmurs something unintelligible when Merlin tugs the blankets up and rests his hand there for a moment, covering the slow rise and fall of his chest. 

He can feel the enchantment even through the fabric of his night shift, throbbing in time with Arthur's heartbeat like it's reacting to his touch. It doesn't have the sharp tang of malevolent sorcery, though—oddly enough, Merlin feels it calm under his hand, probably pacified by the proximity of the ever-present curl of magic in his own blood. It feels almost— gentle, somehow, a guiding force rather than a curse, easily tapping into Arthur's subconscious at night to direct his sleeping steps where his waking mind would never go.

In the end, Merlin can't bring himself to leave, although Arthur succumbed to sleep again as soon as his head hit the pillow. He briefly returns to the antechamber to drag his bundle of sheets off the bed, and carries a chair to Arthur's bedside, careful not to let the legs scrape the floor. Then he just sits there swathed in a cocoon of blankets, his sleepy gaze fixed on Arthur's relaxed features, and finally lets his eyes droop shut to the steady cadence of Arthur's breathing.

* * *

Ever since Merlin can remember, people have been telling him that he's not really the sharpest knife in the drawer. It's the sort of good-natured teasing that Merlin tolerates simply because he has always known it's true—but when he finally gets it, he is still sort of surprised how long it's taken him to realize that the truth has been right in front of his nose all along.

He pauses in the middle of scrubbing Gaius' table, staring at the wet rag in his hand and the stain he's trying to get rid of, and feels his mouth slowly drop open on its own accord. His idle thoughts had just made yet another detour to the sleepwalking curse and Arthur's supposedly deceived heart, and suddenly, understanding crashed down on his mind like an avalanche without preamble and buried all rational thought with a rapid succession of realizations.

The sorceress cursed Arthur to spend his nights "roaming the lands in his hours of rest," as the she had so eloquently put it, following the invisible pull of whatever it is he needs to stop deceiving himself about. And Merlin went to the forest to pick herbs for Gaius on the first day after their encounter, and the next morning, Arthur had shown up on his doorstep looking like he'd spent the night wandering through dew-dampened fields. On the second day, Merlin had gone back to the tavern, only to find Arthur following the same forest track at night. And Merlin spent yesterday moving about in Arthur's chambers, which explains why Arthur didn't venture outside the night before.

Which means, Merlin concludes dizzily, that the whole thing hasn't been so much about finding "the one Arthur's heart holds dear," to put it in the sorceress' words, but rather about getting Arthur to stop "denying his soul the counterpart it seeks" by chatting up random pretty women in the hopes of finding a counterpart that isn't quite so oblivious.

It all makes sense now, even the prince's odd reluctance to let Merlin move into the antechamber—Arthur had probably caught on to the true implications of his nightly walks far more quickly, and did everything in his power to keep Merlin from finding out. His discomfort and embarrassment make sense now as well, along with about a million other things—the way he hasn't asked Merlin to help him bathe in a rather long time, for example, and how he keeps swallowing a lot when Merlin dresses him lately, and the glances he gives him when he thinks it safe, quiet, covert looks filled with something Merlin has deemed unreadable until now.

"I am so stupid," Merlin says to the room at large, astonished at the sheer extent of his idiocy. The wet cloth in his hand is soaking a damp patch into the wooden desk, but he can't recover his higher brain functions enough to move his hand.

Gaius just hums noncommittally, not looking up from where he's sorting herbs at the other end of the table. Merlin waits just a moment longer, his mind suspended in the slow unfolding of a dawning realization, and when he feels himself begin to smile, he makes a beeline for the door.

* * *

He has just managed to banish the wide, possibly insane grin from his heated face when he bursts into Arthur's chambers, not bothering to knock. Arthur looks up from where he's been studying an assortment of papers strewn across the table, his annoyed expression melting into a caged sort of surprise when their gazes meet. Nevertheless, Merlin closes the door behind himself before speaking, not too keen on whoever passes through the hallway overhearing what he has to say.

In one breath, Merlin blurts, "You stuck-up, arrogant, idiotic, emotionally constipated, stupid _prat_ ," and then leans back against the door, slightly weak in the knees after running up countless flights of stairs, and just concentrates on gasping for air for a while.

To his credit, Arthur doesn't seem all that surprised by the barrage of insults; he doesn't even look angry, he's just starting to get that wary, trapped look on his face again that Merlin sort of wishes he had the breath to talk away. He doesn't manage much more than a wheeze and a vaguely inappropriate hand gesture, though, and that merely results in Arthur slowly pushing his chair back with a guarded expression, as though preparing for a fight.

Arthur finally clears his throat, and says, voice measured, "I beg your pardon?"—which is about the moment Merlin decides that there are more important things on the agenda than breathing. He closes in on Arthur with two big strides, puts his hands on the back of his chair to steady himself, leans down, and kisses him.

It's nothing like Merlin thought it would be—or, well, like he's never really imagined it could until about five minutes ago. For one, Arthur's mouth is half-open, whether to snap at him or just suck in a breath Merlin doesn't know, and their teeth click together before Merlin can readjust the angle. But then he finds the soft, ripe bow of Arthur's bottom lip and licks at it before he can stop himself, the soft, nearly inaudible sound from the back of Arthur's throat making warmth curl low in his belly.

Merlin feels Arthur lean into him ever-so-slightly, but then the three seconds it took for his brain to catch up are over, and suddenly Arthur's hand is on his chest, shoving him back hard enough to make him stumble against the table.

He's up and out of the chair before Merlin can even blink, face flushed and eyes positively _livid_. His hands curl and uncurl at his sides as though he can just barely keep himself from shoving Merlin again or just punching him outright, and they're both breathing hard now, their rapid exhales the only sound in the deafening silence.

"How—," Arthur finally chokes out, through a throat tight with what sounds like offended rage, but Merlin hears the desperate embarrassment underneath, mingling with the sort of fear he didn't think Arthur would ever have to feel. "Merlin, how _dare_ you—"

Merlin doesn't know who moves forward first, or whose hands are the first to raise. He just spends an oddly quiet moment listening to the roar of blood in his ears, spurred on by his thundering pulse, and realizes, quite suddenly, that Arthur thinks he just kissed him to break the enchantment. 

Then they're suddenly on each other, scrabbling fingers and shoving hands, completely silent through the sudden, violent skirmish save for their panting breaths. Merlin is trying to trap Arthur's hands between their chests so he can bury his fingers in Arthur's shirt and yank him close, and Arthur is struggling just as hard to shake off Merlin's hold. Merlin is suddenly, inexplicably angry, not so much at _Arthur_ , but it still twists a rush of adrenalin through his limbs, dulling the brief spasm of pain when Arthur shoves at his shoulder hard enough for his collarbone to creak.

It might be a combination of residual mortification and the humiliated anger in Arthur's eyes, but something is slowing the prince down enough for Merlin to finally crowd him back against the wall, forcefully enough that his head thuds against the stone. Arthur grimaces in pain, and briefly stops trying to throw Merlin off, but the moment is long enough for Merlin to trap him between his weight and the wall.

The aggressive energy hasn't quite drained out of Merlin yet, is still simmering hotly just beneath his skin, but his previous indignation is dulled, muted at the look of furious dismay on Arthur's features when he realizes that he'd have to break Merlin's arm to get away. This close to him, Merlin can feel that the spell is broken, the hum of magic no longer a tightly-curled ball between Arthur's ribs, the only frantic pounding being that of Arthur's heart.

Merlin closes his eyes so he doesn't have to see Arthur's humiliated glare anymore, the expression in his eyes so clearly daring him to laugh at him for what he's found out, and presses their damp foreheads together, bringing his hands up to firmly hold Arthur's head in place when he tries to turn his face away. Arthur's breath is coming in sharp, short bursts, like he's sustained a mortal injury and tries not to inhale too deeply for fear of aggravating the wound. But the fight gradually goes out of him, until he stops pawing at Merlin's shoulder and just stands there, muscles thrumming with restless energy under Merlin's hands.

Finally, Merlin takes a deep, reassuring breath, and tilts Arthur's face up with gentle thumbs under his jaw to press a chaste, close-mouthed kiss to his temple. Arthur shudders, but Merlin doesn't move away, trailing his lips across Arthur's cheek in soft pecks until he's reached his mouth, and doesn't fight the rush of relief when Arthur turns slightly in Merlin's grip to meet him halfway.

It's less hurried this time, just the slow, spit-slicked slide of skin on skin until Merlin tentatively licks at the tightly-closed seam of Arthur's lips. Arthur sighs against him, a damp huff of air as he opens his mouth to let Merlin nudge his tongue with his own, and Merlin feels the last of the tension drain out of his muscles.

Arthur makes a soft, involuntary sound when Merlin sucks lightly on his bottom lip, his hands encircling Merlin's wrists. Merlin loosens his own hold a little, shifting his weight backwards, but Arthur just shifts with him and leans in to claim his mouth again. His hands come to rest on Merlin's shoulders for a moment before sliding down to press into the dip of his lower back, and Merlin's breath rushes out of him in a half-sigh half-moan, his hips instinctively canting forward into the sudden, delicious pressure of Arthur's groin against his.

He doesn't need to shove a thigh between Arthur's to know that they're both uncomfortably hard, but he does it anyway just to hear Arthur's bitten-off groan at the sudden contact. His head feels oddly light, dizzy with the suddenness of the arousal curling through his abdomen, quickening the blood in his veins until he feels almost drunk with it. Dimly, he realizes that his hands are tearing uselessly at Arthur's shirt while Arthur's suddenly clumsy fingers are busy trying to work loose the laces of Merlin's trousers. 

It feels almost crazy, this maddened scrabbling of hands when they haven't even _spoken_ yet and Arthur was still trying to punch him in the face not a minute ago. But Arthur just crowds right back into him when Merlin tries to back off a little, walking him backwards to the bed, and the perfect fit of his big, warm hands securely fastened over his hips conveniently shuts up the tiny part of Merlin's brain that thinks they're going too fast.

He exhales wetly against Arthur's cheek when his thighs hit the bed, and apparently Arthur doesn't need the space Merlin intended to give him after all. He just tilts his head down to suck a bruise into the side of Merlin's neck when he tugs him down into the soft mattress, leaving Merlin unable to do anything but gasp for air with the way his heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest. 

Arthur rolls them over, and when Merlin finally opens his eyes after the sudden surge of vertigo, Arthur's expression has shed the last vestiges of the desperate mortification from before. Now he just gazes up at Merlin with an amazed, wondering look in his eyes, at last willing to trust Merlin to let this happen despite everything else, and when Arthur reaches for him again, Merlin can't do anything but follow.

* * *

When Merlin wakes that night, it's to the sound of Arthur's soft, deep breathing, and an unmistakable damp feeling under his cheek that means he has drooled on Arthur's shirt.

He dimly recalls falling asleep to the feeling of Arthur wrapping an arm around his waist to pull him close, but Merlin apparently turned around in his sleep to climb half on top of him, tangling their legs together in a way that makes his calf twitch with the beginnings of a cramp. Arthur's nose is buried in his hair, puffing steady streams of damp air against the side of his head with every exhale, but the circle of his arms around Merlin is still firm, as though unwilling to let him go again even in his sleep.

The thought causes something in his chest to twist up and go soft at the same time, an unbearable and yet oddly welcome feeling that makes his skin itch with the soft heaviness of emotion curling in his belly. But since Arthur isn't awake to see the stupidly besotted grin on his face anyway, Merlin doesn't see why he should suppress it. 

He watches the moonlight paint the room in a blue glow, smiling somewhat inanely until his eyelids start to droop again. Then he puts his head back down to let himself be lulled back to sleep by the rise and fall of Arthur's chest, and this time, there is no throb of magic under Merlin's ear, just the steady, strong beat of his heart.


End file.
